by Walter Scott
“Ay but, by the rood of Bromholme, there was no romance in the matter!” said Athelstane. “A barley loaf and a pitcher of water—that they gave me, the niggardly traitors, whom my father, and I myself, had enriched, when their best resources were the flitches of bacon and measures of corn out of which they wheedled poor serfs and bondsmen, in exchange for their prayers. The nest of foul, ungrateful vipers—barley bread and ditch water to such a patron as I had been! I will smoke them out of their nest, though I be excommunicated!”
“But, in the name of Our Lady, noble Athelstane,” said Cedric, grasping the hand of his friend, “how didst thou escape this imminent danger? did their hearts relent?”
“Did their hearts relent!” echoed Athelstane. “Do rocks melt with the sun? I should have been there still, had not some stir in the convent, which I find was their procession hitherward to eat my funeral feast, when they well knew how and where I had been buried alive, summoned the swarm out of their hive. I heard them droning out their death-psalms, little judging they were sung in respect for my soul by those who were thus famishing my body. They went, however, and I waited long for food; no wonder—the gouty sacristan was even too busy with his own provender to mind mine. At length down he came, with an unstable step and a strong flavour of wine and spices about his person. Good cheer had opened his heart, for he left me a nook of pasty and a flask of wine instead of my former fare. I ate, drank, and was invigorated; when, to add to my good luck, the sacristan, too totty to discharge his duty of turnkey fitly, locked the door beside the staple, so that it fell ajar. The light, the food, the wine set my invention to work. The staple to which my chains were fixed was more rusted than I or the villain abbot had supposed. Even iron could not remain without consuming in the damps of that infernal dungeon.”
“Take breath, noble Athelstane,” said Richard, “and partake of some refreshment, ere you proceed with a tale so dreadful.”
“Partake!” quoth Athelstane. “I have been partaking five times to-day; and yet a morsel of that savoury ham were not altogether foreign to the matter: and I pray you, fair sir, to do me reason in a cup of wine.”
The guests, though still agape with astonishment, pledged their resuscitated landlord, who thus proceeded in his story:—He had indeed now many more auditors than those to whom it was commenced, for Edith, having given certain necessary orders for arranging matters within the castle, had followed the dead-alive up to the strangers’ apartment, attended by as many of the guests, male and female, as could squeeze into the small room, while others, crowding the staircase, caught up an erroneous edition of the story, and transmitted it still more inaccurately to those beneath, who again sent it forth to the vulgar without, in a fashion totally irreconcilable to the real fact. Athelstane, however, went on as follows with the history of his escape:—
“Finding myself freed from the staple, I dragged myself upstairs as well as a man loaded with shackles, and emaciated with fasting, might; and after much groping about, I was at length directed, by the sound of a jolly roundelay, to the apartment where the worthy sacristan, an it so please ye, was holding a devil’s mass with a huge beetle-browed, broad-shouldered brother of the grey-frock and cowl, who looked much more like a thief than a clergyman. I burst in upon them, and the fashion of my grave-clothes, as well as the clanking of my chains, made me more resemble an inhabitant of the other world than of this. Both stood aghast; but when I knocked down the sacristan with my fist, the other fellow, his pot-companion, fetched a blow at me with a huge quarter-staff.”
“This must be our Friar Tuck, for a count’s ransom,” said Richard, looking at Ivanhoe.
“He may be the devil, an he will,” said Athelstane. “Fortunately, he missed the aim; he missed the aim; and on my approaching to grapple with him, took to his heels and ran for it. I failed not to set my own heels at liberty by means of the fetter-key, which hung amongst others at the sexton’s belt; and I had thoughts of beating out the knave’s brains with the bunch of keys, but gratitude for the nook of pasty and the flask of wine which the rascal had imparted to my captivity came over my heart; so, with a brace of hearty kicks, I left him on the floor, pouched some baked meat and a leathern bottle of wine, with which the two venerable brethren had been regaling, went to the stable, and found in a private stall mine own best palfrey, which, doubtless, had been set apart for the holy father abbot’s particular use. Hither I came with all the speed the beast could compass—man and mother’s son flying before me wherever I came, taking me for a spectre, the more especially as, to prevent my being recognised, I drew the corpse-hood over my face. I had not gained admittance into my own castle, had I not been supposed to be the attendant of a juggler who is making the people in the castle-yard very merry, considering they are assembled to celebrate their lord’s funeral. I say the sewer thought I was dressed to bear a part in the tregetour’sgn mummery, and so I got admission, and did but disclose myself to my mother, and eat a hasty morsel, ere I came in quest of you, my noble friend.”
“And you have found me,” said Cedric, “ready to resume our brave projects of honour and liberty. I tell thee, never will dawn a morrow so auspicious as the next for the deliverance of the noble Saxon race.”
“Talk not to me of delivering any one,” said Athelstane; “it is well I am delivered myself. I am more intent on punishing that villain abbot. He shall hang on the top of this Castle of Coningsburgh, in his cope and stole; and if the stairs be too strait to admit his fat carcass, I will have him craned up from without.”
“But, my son,” said Edith, “consider his sacred office.”
“Consider my three days’ fast,” replied Athelstane; “I will have their blood every one of them. Front-de-Bœuf was burnt alive for a less matter, for he kept a good table for his prisoners, only put too much garlic in his last dish of pottage. But these hypocritical, ungrateful slaves, so often the self-invited flatterers at my board, who gave me neither pottage nor garlic, more or less—they die, by the soul of Hengist!”
“But the Pope, my noble friend,” said Cedric—
“But the devil, my noble friend,” answered Athelstane; “they die, and no more of them. Were they the best monks upon earth, the world would go on without them.”
“For shame, noble Athelstane,” said Cedric; “forget such wretches in the career of glory which lies open before thee. Tell this Norman prince, Richard of Anjou, that, lion-hearted as he is, he shall not hold undisputed the throne of Alfred, while a male descendant of the Holy Confessor lives to dispute it.”
“How!” said Athelstane, “is this the noble King Richard?”
“It is Richard Plantagenet himself,” said Cedric; “yet I need not remind thee that, coming hither a guest of free-will, he may neither be injured nor detained prisoner: thou well knowest thy duty to him as his host.”
“Ay, by my faith!” said Athelstane; “and my duty as a subject besides, for I here tender him my allegiance, heart and hand.”
“My son,” said Edith, “think on thy royal rights!”
“Think on the freedom of England, degenerate prince!” said Cedric.
“Mother and friend,” said Athelstane, “a truce to your upbraidings ! Bread and water and a dungeon are marvellous mortifiers of ambition, and I rise from the tomb a wiser man than I descended into it. One half of those vain follies were puffed into mine ear by that perfidious Abbot Wolfram, and you may now judge if he is a counsellor to be trusted. Since these plots were set in agitation, I have had nothing but hurried journeys, indigestions, blows and bruises, imprisonments, and starvation; besides that they can only end in the murder of some thousands of quiet folk. I tell you, I will be king in my own domains, and nowhere else; and my first act of dominion shall be to hang the abbot.”
“And my ward Rowena,” said Cedric—“I trust you intend not to desert her?”
“Father Cedric,” said Athelstane, “be reasonable. The Lady Rowena cares not for me; she loves the little finger of my kinsman Wilfred’s glove bet
ter than my whole person. There she stands to avouch it. Nay, blush not, kinswoman; there is no shame in loving a courtly knight better than a country franklin; and do not laugh neither, Rowena, for grave-clothes and a thin visage are, God knows no matter of merriment. Nay, an thou wilt needs laugh, I will find thee a better jest. Give me thy hand, or rather lend it me, for I but ask it in the way of friendship. Here, cousin Wilfred of Ivanhoe, in thy favour I renounce and abjure—Hey! by St. Dunstan, our cousin Wilfred hath vanished! Yet, unless my eyes are still dazzled with the fasting I have undergone, I saw him stand there but even now.”
All now looked around and inquired for Ivanhoe; but he had vanished. It was at length discovered that a Jew had been to seek him; and that, after a very brief conference, he had called for Gurth and his armour, and had left the castle.
“Fair cousin,” said Athelstane to Rowena, “could I think that this sudden disappearance of Ivanhoe was occasioned by other than the weightiest reason, I would myself resume—”
But he had no sooner let go her hand, on first observing that Ivanhoe had disappeared, than Rowena, who had found her situation extremely embarrassing, had taken the first opportunity to escape from the apartment.
“Certainly,” quoth Athelstane, “women are the least to be trusted of all animals, monks and abbots excepted. I am an infidel, if I expected not thanks from her, and perhaps a kiss to boot. These cursed grave-clothes have surely a spell on them, every one flies from me. To you I turn, noble King Richard, with the vows of allegiance, which, as a liege subject—”
But King Richard was gone also, and no one knew whither. At length it was learned that he had hastened to the courtyard, summoned to his presence the Jew who had spoken with Ivanhoe, and, after a moment’s speech with him, had called vehemently to horse, thrown himself upon a steed, compelled the Jew to mount another, and set off at a rate which, according to Wamba, rendered the old Jew’s neck not worth a penny’s purchase.
“By my halidome!” said Athelstane, “it is certain that Zernebock hath possessed himself of my castle in my absence. I return in my grave-clothes, a pledge restored from the very sepulchre, and every one I speak to vanishes as soon as they hear my voice! But it skills not talking of it. Come, my friends, such of you as are left, follow me to the banquet-hall, lest any more of us disappear. It is, I trust, as yet tolerably furnished, as becomes the obsequies of an ancient Saxon noble; and should we tarry any longer, who knows but the devil may fly off with the supper?”
CHAPTER XLIII
Be Mowbray’s sins so heavy in his bosom,
That they may break his foaming courser’s back,
And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
A caitiff recreant!
Richard II1
Our scene now returns to the exterior of the castle, or preceptory, of Templestowe, about the hour when the bloody die was to be cast for the life or death of Rebecca. It was a scene of bustle and life, as if the whole vicinity had poured forth its inhabitants to a village wake or rural feast. But the earnest desire to look on blood and death is not peculiar to those dark ages; though, in the gladiatorial exercise of single combat and general tourney, they were habituated to the bloody spectacle of brave men falling by each other’s hands. Even in our own days, when morals are better understood, an execution, a bruising-match, a riot, or a meeting of radical reformers, collects, at considerable hazard to themselves, immense crowds of spectators, otherwise little interested, except to see how matters are to be conducted, or whether the heroes of the day are, in the heroic language of insurgent tailors, “flints” or “dunghills.”2
The eyes, therefore, of a very considerable multitude were bent on the gate of the preceptory of Templestowe, with the purpose of witnessing the procession; while still greater numbers had already surrounded the tiltyard belonging to that establishment. This inclosure was formed on a piece of level ground adjoining to the preceptory, which had been levelled with care, for the exercise of military and chivalrous sports. It occupied the brow of a soft and gentle eminence, was carefully palisaded around, and, as the Templars willingly invited spectators to be witnesses of their skill in feats of chivalry, was amply supplied with galleries and benches for their use.
On the present occasion, a throne was erected for the Grand Master at the east end, surrounded with seats of distinction for the preceptors and knights of the order. Over these floated the sacred standard, called Le Beau-seant, which was the ensign, as its name was the battle-cry, of the Templars.
At the opposite end of the lists was a pile of faggots, so arranged around a stake, deeply fixed in the ground, as to leave a space for the victim whom they were destined to consume to enter within the fatal circle, in order to be chained to the stake by the fetters which hung ready for that purpose. Beside this deadly apparatus stood four black slaves, whose colour and African features, then so little known in England, appalled the multitude, who gazed on them as on demons employed about their own diabolical exercises. These men stirred not, excepting now and then, under the direction of one who seemed their chief, to shift and replace the ready fuel. They looked not on the multitude. In fact, they seemed insensible of their presence, and of everything save the discharge of their own horrible duty. And when, in speech with each other, they expanded their blubber lips, and showed their white fangs, as if they grinned at the thoughts of the expected tragedy, the startled commons could scarcely help believing that they were actually the familiar spirits with whom the witch had communed, and who, her time being out, stood ready to assist in her dreadful punishment. They whispered to each other, and communicated all the feats which Satan had performed during that busy and unhappy period, not failing, of course, to give the devil rather more than his due.
“Have you not heard, father Dennet,” quoth one boor to another advanced in years, “that the devil has carried away bodily the great Saxon thane, Athelstane of Coningsburgh?”
“Ay, but he brought him back though, by the blessing of God and St. Dunstan.”
“How’s that?” said a brisk young fellow, dressed in a green cassock embroidered with gold, and having at his heels a stout lad bearing a harp upon his back, which betrayed his vocation. The Minstrel seemed of no vulgar rank; for, besides the splendour of his gaily broidered doublet, he wore around his neck a silver chain, by which hung the “wrest,” or key, with which he tuned his harp. On his right arm was a silver plate, which, instead of bearing, as usual, the cognizance or badge of the baron to whose family he belonged, had barely the word SHERWOOD engraved upon it. “How mean you by that?” said the gay Minstrel, mingling in the conversation of the peasants; “I came to seek one subject for my rhyme, and, by’r Lady, I were glad to find two.”
“It is well avouched,” said the elder peasant, “that after Athelstane of Coningsburgh had been dead four weeks—”
“That is impossible,” said the Minstrel; “I saw him in life at the passage of arms at Ashby-de-la-Zouche.”
“Dead, however, he was, or else translated,” said the younger peasant; “for I heard the monks of St. Edmund’s singing the death’s hymn for him; and, moreover, there was a rich death-meal and dole at the Castle of Coningsburgh, as right was; and thither had I gone, but for Mabel Parkins, who—”
“Ay, dead was Athelstane,” said the old man, shaking his head, “and the more pity it was, for the old Saxon blood—”
“But, your story, my masters—your story,” said the Minstrel, somewhat impatiently.
“Ay, ay—construe us the story,” said a burly friar, who stood beside them, leaning on a pole that exhibited an appearance between a pilgrim’s staff and a quarter-staff, and probably acted as either when occasion served—“your story,” said the stalwart churchman. “Burn not daylight about it; we have short time to spare.”
“An please your reverence,” said Dennet, “a drunken priest came to visit the sacristan at St. Edmund’s—”
“It does not please my reverence,” answered the churchman, “that there should
be such an animal as a drunken priest, or, if there were, that a layman should so speak him. Be mannerly, my friend, and conclude the holy man only wrapt in meditation, which makes the head dizzy and foot unsteady, as if the stomach were filled with new wine: I have felt it myself.”
“Well, then,” answered father Dennet, “a holy brother came to visit the sacristan at St. Edmund‘s—a sort of hedge-priest is the visitor, and kills half the deer that are stolen in the forest, who loves the tinkling of a pint-pot better than the sacring-bell,go and deems a flitch of bacon worth ten of his breviary; for the rest, a good fellow and a merry, who will flourish a quarter-staff, draw a bow, and dance a Cheshire round with e’er a man in Yorkshire.”
“That last part of thy speech, Dennet,” said the Minstrel, “has saved thee a rib or twain.”
“Tush, man, I fear him not,” said Dennet; “I am somewhat old and stiff, but when I fought for the bell and ram at Doncaster—”
“But the story—the story, my friend,” again said the Minstrel.
“Why, the tale is but this—Athelstane of Coningsburgh was buried at St. Edmund’s.”
“That’s a lie, and a loud one,” said the friar, “for I saw him borne to his own Castle of Coningsburgh.”
“Nay, then, e‘en tell the story yourself, my masters,” said Dennet, turning sulky at these repeated contradictions; and it was with some difficulty that the boor could be prevailed on, by the request of his comrade and the Minstrel, to renew his tale. “These two sober friars,” said he at length, “since this reverend man will needs have them such, had continued drinking good ale, and wine, and what not, for the best part of a summer’s day, when they were aroused by a deep groan, and a clanking of chains, and the figure of the deceased Athelstane entered the apartment, saying, ‘Ye evil shepherds—!’”
“It is false,” said the friar, hastily, “he never spoke a word.”
